


Don’t Ask Me To Stop What Naturally Comes To Me

by ShahHira



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Comfort, Crude Humor, Five + One fic, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Touching, Trans Male Characters, because I love everything about satya, except it's four times, jesse and satya friendship too!, literally only fluff, local funnyman tries very hard to be funny, satya and d.va friendship, tons of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahHira/pseuds/ShahHira
Summary: Insanity: doing something over and over again and expecting different results. By that definition, Jesse McCree must be insane.





	1. It Starts With A Close Call

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhh here's a totally unrelated fic I've been working on instead of LaF im so sorry
> 
> so it's written like a 5 + 1 fic except I ran out of ideas and I shortened it to 4. It is yet another comfort fic so once again, I'll prolly not update this too much but y'all know what happened the last time I said that (see barber au)

“Thanks for covering my ass back there,” McCree pants as he slides into the squished spot behind cover next to Hanzo, slouching against the concrete.

His companion grunts as his response, unable to say much of anything beyond the pain radiating from his injured arm. The heat of battle envelops them, rain beating down in sheets as the pair takes shelter behind a crumbling barricade near the periphery of the town square. They had been tracking stragglers of the Los Muertos gang that had holed up in this small town on the outskirts of Dorado when the tide of the battle had suddenly turned against their favor, weapons fire suddenly surrounding them from all sides, forcing them into a defensive formation.

But not before Hanzo had seen McCree lined up in one of the enemies’ sights, pushing him into safety while he took the spray of bullets into his left side. Two of them had lodged into the meat of his bicep – despite the pressure McCree’s makeshift bandage had applied, blood is still streaming down the neat bullet holes, mixing in with the rain water.

Black spots dance across Hanzo’s vision, but he forces himself to stay alert. There is no way this flimsy wall could withstand the assault of rounds being pumped into it. They would have to switch to find more durable cover soon…

“Over there!” Jesse gasps like he’s seen heaven. He’s pointing down a cramped alleyway: there, from the shadows, emerges the familiar form of D.Va’s MEKA at full speed, the pink glowing brightly amidst the darkness, a saving grace for the stranded agents.

Another round of pulse rifle shots and bullets ping again against their cover at uncoordinated intervals. It chips off a large chunk of stone on Hanzo’s left: if they don’t move soon, _both_ of them will eventually end up riddled with holes. The pair lock gazes, neither of them stopping to think twice.

“Go!” At McCree’s cry, they both scramble up against the slick of water sluicing down the uneven cobblestone, running madly across the square. They curve their path to rendezvous with the landing vector of the MEKA. It whooshes past their heads and lands with an inelegant _thunk_ , smack in the middle of the town square. The pair takes shelter behind it, quietly praying for D.Va to pull one of her crazy maneuvers to miraculously pull them out of this mess and into safety.

But nothing else happens. Silence reigns across the square, the assailants ceasing their fire to reassess the battlefield. Even in the deafening rain, it feels like everyone is holding their breath.

“D.Va?” McCree whispers forcefully. Hanzo can see him furrowing his brow in growing agitation. “D.Va, can ya hear me? C’mon…”

He fiddles with the back opening, and soon resorts to prying it open with his metal arm. Hanzo adjusts his death grip on his wounds, fighting against the blackness threatening to close his eyes, and cranes his neck up to peek in.

She is not in the mech.

Instead, there is a countdown on all three of the MEKA screens’ giant readouts, big blocky red Korean letters flashing painfully bright. Right on cue, a steady high-pitched begins to beep. McCree’s and Hanzo’s eyes widen in unison, reaching the same conclusion.

This must be Hana’s craziest scheme yet.

The two turn tail and run as far away as they can from the imminently exploding MEKA, the beeping growing louder and louder despite the distance they create. It’s not nearly enough, they both know, but they keep running, willing to bet on the smallest chance that they might make it.

At least it will take out what remains of Los Muertos in this town.

The mech starts to crumple to the ground, beginning the implosion sequence, and the assailants start to realize what is going on but it is much too late. The blast radius is too large for them to avoid. The mission is going to be a success.

“Get down!” Hanzo yells despite the nausea clawing at his stomach, and reaches with his injured arm towards McCree. He barely notices the pull of damaged muscle as he jerks him to the side, knocking them both to the ground, splashing in a tangled mess of limbs in a shallow puddle of murky water.

The squeal of the mech goes inaudible, a telltale sign of the inevitable explosion. Hanzo hugs Jesse tight, the words he had one day resolved to say suddenly blocked in his throat.

It is then that he suddenly realizes – he does not want to die.

The mech explodes.

…

…

It’s… quiet. Too quiet. Pure darkness stretches through all his senses. His ears ring.

“–!”

No, not ringing, but… a voice?

“–ent Shimada…”

This voice sounds calm, enunciated to perfect syllables, but it still fades erratically. The darkness shows no signs of lifting.

“...yeeeeeeeeEEEEAAAAHHHH!”

A wordless cry of exhilaration goes unbroken for a good ten seconds. Somehow his swimming conscious recognizes that as Hana’s voice.

“Hanzo?”

A much more clear sound buzzes very close to his ear, rich and deep, enveloping him in safety. Only now does he realize that he can open his eyes.

It’s Jesse. And he’s staring down at Hanzo, the browns of his eyes filled with an emotion he can’t place: a unique kind of anguish, one that’s never been quite directed at him before. Hanzo tries lifting a hand to his face, twisted with worry, an intense, strange need to comfort him neatly sidestepping his usual self-control… and instead groans when everything hurts, hand flopping limply back to earth.

Apparently, that is enough for Jesse; he chuckles low in his chest, then builds it up and up and up until he can hardly take a breath to laugh without wheezing. His whole body shakes with the motion, the rumble of his chest sinking deep into Hanzo’s bones. Wet gear and clothes make a squelching noise when Jesse pulls him into a crushing hug.

A rush of heat blooms over his face, a sloppy mush of Jesse’s warm lips planted soundly upon his cheek. Delight surges throughout his body, wrenching a laugh that’s freed from the depths of his soul, bubbling up into a euphoria – one which he hasn’t felt for in a very long time. Lost in the elation of the moment, he doesn’t stop to think of the significance.

After what seems to be mere seconds Jesse eventually pulls back, the delicious warmth still wrapped around him but fading away. Awareness quickly comes rushing back; the rain has slowed down to a lazy drizzle. Hanzo then belatedly realizes most of his upper body is leaned back into Jesse’s chest.

A shuffle of footsteps makes their way towards the pair. Soon enough, three pairs of eyes bear down on him: Hana, Satya, and Jesse, all crowding his vision. They all have a mix of relief and concern on their faces, albeit in varying degrees.

“Is this death?” Hanzo deadpans, yet is unable to muster up the energy to stop the smile from bursting through.

Jesse starts laughing once again, sagging against the building at his back. Hana rolls her eyes while Satya clasps her hands behind her back, a trace of amusement peeking through her cool expression. Satya begins her explanation, “Agent Song has violated approximately seven of the South Korean MEKA unit’s regulations in an attempt to save both of your lives soon after the battle shifted against our favor.”

Hana jumps in with, “Hell yeah, I did!” before Satya continues patiently, “What she did not account for, however, was for two of our more seasoned agents _plus_ the primary in-command,” here, she turns a stern look at Jesse, “to endanger their lives by purposefully approaching a detonating MEKA.”

“Hey now–” Jesse starts.

“From my vantage point,” he is uncharacteristically cut off by Satya, “there was nothing I could do except send out one of my modified projected barriers. Of which I was still in the process of testing its effects in conjunction with the shield generator I had placed prior to our mission.” She bowed her head slightly towards Hanzo. “I apologize for your adverse reactions.”

“It is a better alternative to death,” Hanzo assures. “Your quick thinking saved us both.”

Satya inclines her head in unspoken thanks. “The teleporter is not too far. Dr. Ziegler is notified of your status and is waiting on-base to take you in. I shall lead the way.”

She turns to walk off. After processing the unexpected dress down, Hanzo pushes through the soreness in his muscles and braces himself to get up. He’s counting that the adrenaline that came with their brush of death would sustain him at least to the dropship but instead fatigue immediately takes root, his legs crumpling beneath him – and then he is taken by surprise when Jesse takes on most of his weight in a flash. His uninjured arm is thrown around Jesse’s shoulders, while Hana strides up to secure an arm around his waist. Tiny as it is, he feels a certain vigor coursing through, bolstering his steps.

As they step out into the quiet buzz of rain, a familiar hum sounds overhead. The soft blue shine of a hard-light projection curves smoothly over the three of them, shielding them from the rain. Up ahead, Satya lowers her prosthetic arm, not looking back.

The last thing he hears is Jesse whispering into his ear, a soft suggestion to rest easy, that they would take it from here. Safe in the knowledge that his comrades have the situation under control, Hanzo doesn’t realize that he falls asleep on his feet, finally succumbing to the exhaustion clinging to his eyes.

The ghost of a burning outline of lips accompanies him into oblivion.


	2. When Lightning Strikes Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today he wants to relax, Hanzo resolves. But he can't stop thinking about the Dorado mission, and what that might mean...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Local funnyman tries very hard to be funny, comes off as tryhard
> 
> So this has taken a while. My original outline was to make it 3 chapters but I realized later that that was just overkill for me to pack so much into one chapter. That would take far too long, and this chapter, once again, got out of hand. Besides yall deserve more updates, and I need to take it easy on myself <3

“…Everything seems to be in working order. But please, no more unnecessary risk-taking. And do take it easy this time, Mr. Shimada.”

Hanzo exits the Medical Bay with a tired nod and Dr. Ziegler’s veiled prescription for rest. For once he plans on obeying, at least for today.

It’s a relief to be dry again. Despite the rain Dorado had been hot and sticky this time of year, and it was only the lure of dry clothing and the carefully regulated atmosphere back at base that stopped him from stripping in the dropship outright.

He settles for rolling his shoulders, then abruptly stops with a hiss when the bullet wounds under his cast twinge with discomfort. For the fifth time today, he sends an irritated glare at the old-fashioned thing that has immobilized his left arm in a sling and shoulder wrapped in 3D-printed plaster, hard and inflexible. While it does not restrict too much of his movement it does put him off-balance, and he resents that.

Frown growing deeper, he recalls Dr. Zeigler’s reasons: she had used her cutting-edge biotic technology to repair much of the serious damage, but then she turned around and threw on an absolutely atrocious shell of white that he is sure is “state-of-the-art” for peasants in the eighteenth century. She had claimed to do this injustice for his own good: so that his body wouldn’t grow dependent on the nanobots, that he would heal as naturally as possible, and that the physical therapy period would be shorter; _he_ thought it was just a way to keep him lazy.

Nevertheless they are doctor’s orders, and she has never given him any reason to mistrust her methods so far. Besides, he had hardly put up a fight ever since their party landed, wanting nothing more but to go to his room and sleep off the fatigue still clinging to his muscles.

He does this, and before he knows it, it is late next morning, and the first sound that comes out of his mouth is a groan. He feels awful – nothing so debilitating, but the chill of the rain and the shivers of a close call resonate deep within his arm, throbbing like a bad knee that senses an upcoming storm.

He heaves himself up and leaves for the communal kitchen, notebook in hand. He spots Mei fixing herself up something. It looks warm, and that is just what Hanzo needs, so he uses his injured status to guilt her into making two of those somethings. Which is something he really does not have to do since, he remembers, she is always more than willing to grant her teammates with snacks, supplies, or a shoulder to lean on. Quite a bubble of generosity, Hanzo has observed.

And anyway, she had already made too much of that something, so. It is a moot point.

In return for her generosity he tells her about the mission over their drinks – it turns out to be an indulgent cup of hot chocolate, smooth and perfectly sweet – and she, refreshingly, asks question after question about the weather; despite Hanzo’s tales of action, the climatologist cannot resist studying her field of interest, especially considering the noteworthy nature of Dorado’s rain cycles. While he is not prepared for this particular round of interrogation, he finds himself cooperative after answering her questions and listening to her rudimentary analysis – once she simplifies all the scientific jargon for his benefit, it is surprisingly intriguing.

“Need a second eyewitness report, Dr. Zhou?”

One minute McCree is not there, the next he is slouching against the counter, covering a yawn. He saunters up to Hanzo’ side of the kitchen’s island and rests a hand on his good shoulder, easy and firm. _Like he fits there_ , he catches himself thinking. “I was there, too. I’m feelin’ a little left out.”

There’s no real heat to his words. Mei giggles. “It’s nothing so official. I was just curious, that’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write a three-hundred page dissertation on everything Mr. Shimada has told me and credit him and only him.”

She says it so casually that her finished cup is in the sink and she is already dashing out the door before either of them catches on. “Now hold up, little lady, don’t go sassin’ me–!”

“Extra hot chocolate on the stove!” is all that echoes down the hall, her laughter trailing off in the distance.

They meet eyes as Hanzo lifts his cup, though it is obvious he is smiling at his expense. With a nod towards the pot, he silently invites McCree to take Mei’s place.

“Naw,” he responds, “I just came in here for something to eat. Gotta lay off the sweets. Lord knows I’m gonna put on so many pounds on the three days minimum rest Angela laid the law down on. Especially since Satya seconded that notion.”

Hanzo hums knowingly, flashing back to the mission, once again grateful for her innovative thinking on the battlefield. He studies McCree as he opens the fridge door, looking for brunch. The signs of exhaustion are less noticeable but it’s there: in the way his back protests, the careful way he reaches inside to grab a few ingredients. His expression looks like he’s fighting a losing battle in keeping his eyelids up, and he exhales a tiny puff of exertion when he places his items on the table.

His movements are slow and precise, and the muscles in his forearms shift to and fro. Hanzo remembers how tight they held him in the rain, strong and wonderful. And then can’t stop his train of thought when his eyes naturally gravitate towards his lips, and the way they felt so soft on his cheek, and so warm. He finds himself pondering – if that’s the kind of warmth he’s craving...

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I look like a mess,” McCree says, pulling him back to the present.

This is not what Hanzo thinks at all. But belatedly, he realizes he’s been openly staring for quite some time. “If it makes you feel any better, I too feel like a mess.”

That earns him a scoff. “You know damn well you’re lookin’ as regal as ever, even with that cast on.”

Hanzo strikes a ridiculous pose, accentuating the ugly thing. “Oh? Do I make it work?”

It’s worth looking idiotic if it gets McCree to wheeze with laughter.

“What’s that for?” McCree points to the small black notebook by his side as he pours an unreasonable amount of balsamic vinegar on his salad.

“It is my journal. I haven’t been keeping up with it lately, but now that I have some mandated free time I’ve decided to do some catching up. You will ruin the flavor.”

Hanzo attempts to bat his hand away from the poor salad. “Is that kinda like dipping too much soy sauce on a piece of sushi? ‘Cause man, have I got somethin’ to tell you,” McCree threatens, and can’t help but chuckle at Hanzo’s scandalized expression. Still, he puts away the bottle, digging around in a cabinet for a small thermos. “A diary, huh? Sounds like a nice an’ low-key way to spend the day.”

“‘Diary,’ yes, I suppose,” Hanzo scoffs at his word choice.

“Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with that. I myself like to write from time to time.” Filling up the thermos with hot chocolate McCree picks up his bowl and leaves, but not before throwing over his shoulder: “Come on over to my room, then.”

At Hanzo’s bemused look, he adds, “My room’s on the other side of the Watchpoint, so it’s real quiet. Less chance for you to get interrupted. And everyone knows how you hate bein’ interrupted.” He winks. “‘Sides, I got something I wanna show you.”

How can Hanzo say no to that?

They walk across base – actually, more like amble in McCree’s case, his pace unhurried but his strides long and measured. It’s not hard for Hanzo to keep up, but that’s because he can perceive a certain exhaustion lagging his movements: the same kind in his bones, too. Their silence is a comfortable one.

They pass by the Garage and share a look when Satya, Hana, and Torbjorn are huddled up around the scattered debris of some sort of machinery, the blueprint of a familiar giant mech glowing on the Garage’s huge viewscreen. Something truly sinister is brewing when they catch a glimpse of Hana’s shining eyes and wide, scheming grin. They leave the trio to their devices.

Hanzo has never been in McCree’s room, and he imagines that it must be larger-than-life just like the man himself. What he sees is… anticlimactic, but in hindsight he should have expected it. A carbon copy of his own room: clean, but only because there are hardly any personal effects to decorate it. Sparse, in a saddening way for such a personable man.

But there is a certain energy that suffuses its walls, and the surface of the lone desk is cluttered with knick-knacks so at least it feels lived in. The couch looks well-worn, bringing with it a certain character. And then he notices the distinct shape of a guitar propped up in a corner in the room. McCree reaches for it.

“Picked up this beaut not too long ago during a short stint back down around Arizona,” he explains, hands flat against the smooth, polished wood.

Hanzo keeps his distance but is undeniably curious. It’s kept in amazing condition – from the wood, to the perfectly taut strings, to the clean gleam of the metal accoutrements, shining as if hardly touched.

“It is beautiful,” Hanzo can’t keep from voicing his thoughts. “It must be a joy to play such an instrument.”

“Well, um, about that,” McCree rubs a hand behind his neck, “I haven’t really… played a whole lot. At all, actually. Well, I mean it’s been uh, a few weeks, I think, but…”

With each hesitant word Hanzo levels him an increasingly unimpressed look – to which McCree trails off and can only offer a sheepish smile. So it _is_ hardly touched.

“And that’s why you’re here!” he suddenly exclaims. “You have the exclusive opportunity to hear me fiddle with this here guitar and listen to my god-awful out of practice skills.”

Hanzo takes a seat on the couch. “Oh, the humanity,” he says flatly, opening his notebook.

“You won’t be bothered with the music, will you?” McCree asks, unsure. “I’m not plannin’ on going too ham but just in case it disturbs you…”

“No, no. It is just what I need.”

Soon enough McCree’s clumsy tuning fades into the background as Hanzo turns to the next blank page in his notebook. The journal itself is not very remarkable; he had picked it up in a small convenience store on a whim – solid black, small enough to fit on his person, durable for the road. His latest journal entry is shortly after Genji confronted him in Hanamura’s shrine. Ever since he’s joined Overwatch months ago he hasn’t quite found the time to write.

A semblance of a tune begins to take form. Hanzo’s thoughts had been so jumbled that night, and it’s clearly reflected in his writing. Pristine and sharp as his handwriting is, he couldn’t seem to put down just what exactly he was feeling that night, what emotions were running through him, each sentence growing shorter and shorter in length, more confused. The last sentence he has written is _I don’t know how to proceed._

He sighs, already dismayed. Not the most optimistic start to his day.

“Now don’t feel pressured an’ all to do so, but I’d be _mighty_ interested if you could share some of the more juicy bits you have in your lil’ diary.”

He spares McCree a glance. The man is practically leaning out of his chair. Hanzo thinks for a moment, grins at a memory. He pats the seat next to him, beckoning.

McCree wastes no time in planting himself on the couch as Hanzo begins. “At some point in my mercenary work I was low on funds so I was forced to pick up some of the shadier, less reputable jobs. This one job I had found was exceptionally low-risk high-reward, and I thought I had struck some easy money. I had already signed up for it and received half of my payment in advance, so naturally I could not turn back.”

“Half payment already? Damn. Couldn’t have been that bad.”

Here he turns McCree a pained look. “I was assigned to my target. To watch him have sex. For days on end.”

Well, now he knows he’s capable of taking McCree’s breath away.

“A petty reason, I know, but by the end of it all I was incensed enough to start this journal,” Hanzo concludes, crossing his arms to shield himself from the incredulous stare McCree is boring into him.

“I dunno if that’s true or if you’re just pullin’ my leg but,” McCree finally speaks, then shakes his head, “I’m sorry but _days?_ What’s the stamina on that guy anyway?”

“I am telling the truth, unfortunately,” Hanzo responds, flipping to the beginning of his journal. “I think I might’ve written down the family name of the employer somewhere. In the meantime I suggest you steer clear away from the whole country of Romania, just as a precautionary measure…”

His journal is recorded exclusively in Japanese; it is, after all, the language he is most comfortable expressing himself in. But it’s only after he tilts the book a certain way and McCree is already peeking over his shoulder does he realizes his oversight.

“Oh, hell yeah. You were pissed, alright.”

There on the very first page, not even two sentences down into that day’s entry is a long string of English words stretched across the page. Every next word is a curse word.

“‘This fucking fucker of a fucknut can eat shit and die, rot in hell and become a shitmagnet for all of Satan’s hellspawn,’” McCree reads, humor coloring his dictation. “Hoo boy, that is creative.” He whistles in appreciation, keeps on reading, “‘This motherfucking goddamn ugly bitch of an unsatisfactory situation can go suck my–’”

“Yes, right, well!” Hanzo snaps the book shut, absolutely red in the face. “In my defense it was completely called for.”

“I hear you bein’ angry, but _how_ in the world–”

“I was holed up in a dingy motel room,” he blurts out, suddenly vehement, “peeking in another dingy motel room like some sad pervert, paid to watch some distant relative of my employer bang an endless stream of hookers just so I could find out where he had hidden his alleged fortunes.”

“Excus– wait, wait, hold up,” McCree sputters, holding back something that sounds like a bout of choked back laughter, “You had to _listen_ to him…?”

“Apparently, the relentless sex was just an elaborate cover-up,” Hanzo says, words tight. “It was… an unsanitary meeting.”

“Ho-lee shit.”

Hanzo is mortified beyond the point of no return at this point, but just the simple act of talking in so spontaneous of a manner with McCree is taking a weight of his shoulders that he doesn’t even know he has; as embarrassing as it is, it’s also very freeing. “My temper was even more volatile, back then. But watching this, this insatiable human being just, _go_ at it for so long, I… it was so…”

“Legend says he’s out there, still fucking.”

Glaring, he mutters, “He’s dead. I killed him myself.”

“Oh.”

They are silent for a moment. Then:

“He died doing what he loved. Fucking.”

“Please stop saying that word,” Hanzo groans.

McCree stops, for a minute. Then bursts into fresh giggles. “I’m sorry but this is too much material to work with.”

“Cease, or I will be forced to shut your mouth by any means necessary.”

“Aw, that’s kinky. Didya go peekin’ on our pal tryin’ that one–”

Hanzo surprises himself when he claps his hand over McCree’s mouth, and scrambles to hold it in position when he’s thrown off-guard by the unexpectedly soft skin underneath, trying to find purchase on top of the bristled beard. According to his flawed logic, it is clearly the only way to stop the obscenities flowing from the cowboy – and the only way to stop his beating heart.

However, the action only serves to set McCree off even more, to the point where he can hardly take a breath without desperately struggling to inhale – the kind of laughter where the thing isn’t even funny anymore but you can’t stop laughing until it’s all out. He’s hysteric, tears squeezed out the corners of his eyes. He pushes down his hand even further but that only makes it worse. And yet, Hanzo has never been more enamored with an overly-flushed McCree than he has now.

Truly, he seems to be having a genuinely hard time holding it in. Hanzo has no choice but to lift his hand in defeat. Until suddenly McCree collapses in his direction, burying his still-grinning face into his good shoulder, muffling the tail end of a few high-pitched giggles.

“Are you done yet?” Hanzo asks, voice just on the edge of wavering.

Shaky breaths leave McCree, tickling the sliver of exposed skin in the crook of Hanzo’s neck. “Uh-huh. ‘M done.”

_Good. Now get off me,_ is what Hanzo intends to say but the words stick in his throat. Instead a selfish part of him brings up a hand, pats down McCree’s thick locks of hair. Drums his fingers in an irritating way at the back of his neck, but that is only to offset the sincerity that Hanzo so desperately wishes to be present in his actions.

“Okay, okay.” It gets McCree to sit back up but not enough to leave his side, tucked so searingly pleasant against the broadness of his arm.

One errant snicker later, and music starts up again; random strums of the guitar begin filling the room, light and mellow. One pluck of the string here, one press of the fret there, three quick strums in a row. It’s not supposed to sound good but it’s somehow comforting in a weird, unconventional way, Hanzo muses; enjoyed with his weird, unconventional friend, who together have a weird, unconventional relationship.

Ceasing his fruitless introspection he leafs through past diary entries, hoping that either inspiration or motivation to write will strike him once he finds something interesting. Nothing does, so he just starts writing, no matter how painful it is. It’s slow going; so many things had happened ever since he’s joined Overwatch, he doesn’t know where to start. He spends an absurd amount of time shading in the curve of his letters on the first sentence.

The music falters a bit. He can feel McCree’s eyes examining the pages. Before Hanzo tells him off for peeking, a pencil comes into view.

The hand holding it hovers over the margins of the paper, like it’s contemplating its next move. Then it dips down to scratch out something.

Hanzo peers over his moving hand: _McCree wuz here_ – in stylized block letters, spelled incorrectly on purpose.

The careless way the words stretch across the top margins of the paper contrast starkly with his neat, measured print. It ruins the careful order of his journal. So why does Hanzo find it so appealing? “Do you have to doodle on _my_ things?”

McCree shrugs. “You can erase it if you don’t like it, but you seem like the doodlin’ type of guy anyway.”

He raises an incredulous eyebrow. It’s an unusual comment, but not an unwelcome one. In fact, it’s refreshing. “You think I enjoy doodling?”

McCree shrugs again. He adds miniature spurs at the end of his letters. “Well I didn’t think you were the type to talk shit about someone in a journal, but clearly I was completely off the mark.” He glances up briefly. “Don’t get me wrong: it was well-deserved shit, but shit was still given.”

Hanzo blinks at his frankness. Then recovers, leaning forward. “You walk the walk, you talk the shit. That is how the saying goes, of course.”

McCree chuckles, genuinely charmed. “Of course.”

McCree has already filled in half the adjoining page with a drawing of Peacekeeper (or what looks like his gun – Hanzo can’t quite tell what the sketched-out mess is) and is slowly taking over a good portion of the journal with his large hand. Bit by bit, he inches his way into Hanzo’s space for extra elbow room. Hanzo doesn’t back off to give him the needed space – it’s _his_ journal, and he’s drawing all over it and yeah, he’s being a little petty. But also Hanzo loves that the fact that he’s drawing all over it for… a reason that he can’t really explain.

But that doesn’t mean McCree’s going to get away with it.

“Move your hand.” Hanzo doesn’t even bother waiting for McCree as he begins drawing out the large outlines of a few familiar letters: _B-A-M-F_ span the length of the page, filling the lined space.

Hanzo taps the acronym with his pen. “Would you like to know how your signature phrase translates into Japanese?” He writes it out in English below: _Bad Ass Mother Fucker._

McCree has stars in his eyes. “Hell yeah.”

“First, ‘bad.’ That’s a fairly easy word to translate. There.” He writes it down in Japanese, then in the Romanized version.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then is ‘ass.’ Now this is a common misconception, but curse words do not exist in the Japanese language.”

McCree levels him a doubtful look. “That is not true.”

“Look me in the eye, cowboy,” Hanzo keeps eye contact, trying very hard to maintain a neutral face, “and tell me, a Japanese person, that I am wrong about my own culture.”

McCree is hardly convinced. “…Okay, fine.” He relents anyway.

“So, unfortunately for you, the only translation available is the literal one.”

“Uh, now that don’t sound very tough–”

“Japanese culture dictates that our elders be treated with the utmost respect, so I have no choice but to attach an honorific to ‘mother.’”

“It ain’t supposed to be respectful…?”

“And ‘fucker’? Well,” Hanzo shrugs innocently, “you should just say that in English.”

McCree straightens warily, not taking his eyes off Hanzo. “Because curse words don’t exist in Japanese.”

Hanzo nods. “Right.”

“You have _got_ to be shittin’ me.”

A moment passes. Then a hint of a smile cracks through Hanzo’s impassive expression.

“Goddamn it, yer shittin’ me!”

Hanzo can’t help it; he laughs. McCree rakes a hand through his hair, completely embarrassed. “And I almost fell for it halfway through, ya damn…! Ugh, goddamn it…”

Hanzo is still laughing, unable to hold it in. It’s rolling and deep, coming from somewhere buried within himself that only makes itself apparent when he’s around McCree – something he should work on reburying, but can never seem to muster up the effort to.

This time it’s different. This time McCree is watching him, jaw a bit slackened. He brings a hand up to wipe at his face, looks down at his feet for a split moment. Demure, like he’s hiding his laughter. But no, that’s not it…

Before Hanzo can analyze any further McCree rushes forward and throws an arm around him. The action is stiff, and it jostles his cast a little bit, dull pain shooting down his arm – but all that pales in comparison to how his breath puffs onto his cheek, how intimate the air has become. How his lips radiate warmth...

McCree darts in, presses a kiss near his ear: quick and clean, not too lingering. Thrilling warmth travels down Hanzo’s right side. It’s eerily reminiscent to the Dorado mission.

This time McCree is the one who chuckles, low and nervous. “You went through all that trouble to make a joke out of lil’ old me.” He pulls his hat down over his eyes, refusing to make eye contact.

It occurs to Hanzo that the impossible has just happened for the second time in just as many days. He must be the luckiest man in the world.

Hanzo lets go of his pen and tugs closer the arm that’s about to retreat from his shoulder. “As much as you are a brilliant sharpshooter it astonishes me how gullible you can be.”

Finally, McCree turns his gaze up. His guarded expression soon falls away when he realizes Hanzo bears no ill will towards him. Leaning down, he grabs the thermos of hot chocolate. He hands it to Hanzo.

He takes it. Helps himself to a few delicious sips. Thinks on how strange they are. And then he begins to write, under the twangs of a strummed guitar, blundering and one-handed.


	3. Third Time's The Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A routine establishes itself, and Hanzo gets comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bbbueeghhh I hate this
> 
> All you lovely people who commented on the last chapter made me excited to write this next chapter: so excited, in fact, that I wrote this in just 3 days! And quite frankly it did not turn out as good as I thought, but I got the general gist of what I wanted to write. Ah well, I hope you like this extra-quick update!

The kisses don’t stop.

It’s been a few weeks since the Dorado incident, and Hanzo’s arm has healed back to full capacity. He’d been taken off the mission roster due to his recovery time; though he hasn’t forgotten how long it takes to recuperate from the wounds old-fashioned metal bullets inflict, it puts him in a foul mood all the same. That is, whenever he’s not with McCree.

At first, Hanzo had thought the earlier kisses had been an impulse reaction, caught up in the heat of the moment: a split second burst of passion that McCree has no choice but to channel through his lips. The first kiss he can excuse; the one in McCree’s room had to have been purely coincidental.

But then the weeks pass and he doesn’t go a day without McCree planting a kiss somewhere on his face. It’s as regular as clockwork, as routine as can be. They are offered without much fanfare, but it’s become a vital part of what Hanzo looks forward to each day, bringing with it the mystery of where he might strike next – right on his forehead, near his ears, buried in the crown of his hair, awkwardly placed in the angular folds of his nose. All so light and subdued, casual and polite.

And it’s not like he even goes out of his way to be near McCree. In fact, they’ve been just as inseparable as before this whole arrangement started, still doing the same things they do together around the base. It’s just that now the kisses are implicit, an understood expectation when they part for the day and stand in front of one of their rooms or a branching path, facing each other, neither one of them really wanting to leave. But eventually they do, and McCree always gives in and always offers a kiss with a shy smile, and Hanzo’s night is always made just a little bit better.

They haven’t talked about it at all, nor have they gone much farther than this. Hanzo wants it to go further. He thinks McCree might want to as well, but he doesn’t let himself reach such presumptuous conclusions, lest he goes too far and risks ruining the precious arrangement they have now. As much as it’s painful to be honest with himself he likes this, and he wants this to continue. He deflects the truth of what it really means even as he keeps each brush of lips preciously stored in his memory.

It’s what Hanzo is reflecting on as he walks side by side with McCree down the hall, ready to turn in for the right. He’d been eagerly waiting to see what Hana has been busy with ever since the Dorado mission. Satya and Torbjorn were there too, to unveil the final product of the grand project that was the MEKA 2.0, as Hana called it – ‘micro-missiles,’ which she has named the 2.0’s defining characteristic. Her Defense Matrix had suffered a nerf, she said, but at least she would be less likely to resort to blowing up her mech as a last-ditch effort.

“I’m glad Hana found a workaround, but it’s gonna be a long day tomorrow,” McCree mutters.

In response to the new mech modifications, the team is assigned a series of test runs in order to assess its effectiveness on the battlefield. Knowing Jack, he won’t be satisfied until he’s run the mech through numerous simulations – and with Winston’s insistence on collecting accurate data, that means running the team ragged as well.

“She could do without giving us the stink-eye,” says Hanzo.

McCree huffs. “You certain she wasn’t lookin’ straight at me when she said ‘self-destruct’? ‘Cause I could definitely see Satya givin’ me some sort of look.”

“It was most likely a well-meaning look. A bit stern, perhaps…”

“No way, partner. I feel she’s just waitin’ for me to disappoint her.”

McCree bemoans this with a less-than-serious tone, but it surprises Hanzo just the same. “You say that, and yet Satya bears no ill will towards you.”

“‘Bears no ill will’?” he scoffs. “That bar sounds way too low.”

“Regardless, I think you would know whether or not she truly dislikes you or finds you incompetent. You do still exchange recipes from your respective cultures, do you not?”

“Yeah.” McCree considers, then gives a fond, if impish smile. “I finally convinced her to try sloppy joes. Lord, the mess!” He chuckles at the memory. “Of course, she put me right back in my place when she challenged me to eat rice using only my fingers. Damn, if I thought maneuverin’ yer chopsticks was hard, lemme tell you…”

As he launches into a detailed explanation about the mannerisms involved in Indian cuisines, Hanzo can’t help but speculate upon the nature of Satya’s relationship with McCree, and how familiar she’s become with him. He knows she cannot stand for such messiness, and yet he hears McCree triumphantly describe how he finally got her to try vegetarian tacos after her infamous guacamole-related incident several years ago during her time in Brazil – to which she still refuses to share additional details to this day, McCree says.

If McCree is able to exert such an influence on Satya of all people, then does that mean he is as free with her as he is with Hanzo? Is that his end goal? Hanzo knows he is a tactile person by nature, and Satya has made it very clear what her opinions on physical contact are – which is to say, not at all, or at the very least on _her_ terms.

But what if McCree has wormed his way into her unyielding heart? Is he so open in his affections with the others on base: giving them kisses randomly throughout the day, so frank and without Hanzo knowing? Why is he overanalyzing this?

_Because it’s my job and duty as a sniper,_ Hanzo rationalizes, but it’s a weak answer. He knows exactly why.

“Hanzo? Hey, partner, you there?”

McCree has stopped walking. Hanzo has, too, but he’s just been standing there, lost in his thoughts.

With a start, Hanzo looks up. They’re in front of his door. Oh. “I… What did you say? My apologies.”

McCree tilts him a suspicious look. He squints, plants his hands on his hips. “I asked if you ever put spices in your tea like Satya does. But somethin’s up with you, so spit it out.”

He doesn’t say this unkindly; rather, he makes himself comfortable in the darkened hallway, leaning up against the cool metal wall. He peers down at Hanzo with a perceptive gaze, but it’s kind and considerably softened. Clearly, he’s not leaving without some sort of answer.

Hanzo is jealous. He’s jealous, and he wants Jesse all to himself. The realization takes him off guard, but it’s also not really a surprise. Something instinctual rears up within him – a need to keep Jesse and his kisses all to himself. But he can’t really say this aloud, especially since he hardly has any proof of such allegations.

So instead he says, “I have not been… sleeping well. Not since the mission.”

That isn’t a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. The guilt only slightly bears down on him, and he sags his shoulders.

McCree, however, believes him. His eyes go dark, understanding of his pain. “Shit. Your arm botherin’ you?” He shuffles his feet to move in a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Need a drink?”

“Yes, somewhat, but…” Hanzo knows he’s offering to lend a sympathetic ear to his problems but he refuses, shaking his head. “I do not wish to talk about it now. Perhaps at a later time.”

McCree bows his head in acknowledgment, trusting in his judgment. And now Hanzo starts to feel really bad – because he truly hasn’t been sleeping well but not for the reasons McCree thinks, and really, some of those reasons aren’t entirely bad. But now he has McCree worried on his behalf and that cannot stand.

Hanzo opens his mouth to reassure him that he is fine, until McCree says, “It’s a long shot, but I think I might know something that’ll help.”

This gives him pause. “If you suggest another one of your homemade concoctions–”

“No, no, it ain’t that.” McCree brings his hands up in a placating gesture. “And I keep tellin’ you, I had no idea you’d react to that so strongly.”

“I could not feel my tongue for days, Jesse. For _days_.”

McCree winces. “You still holdin’ that against me?”

“Yes!”

“That’s fair.” He shrugged. “Okay, now close your eyes.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “You are asking an assassin, trained from birth to be ever-vigilant of his surroundings, to close his eyes, where at any moment he could be beset by any number of threats descending upon him?”

“I’ll be one of those threats if you don’t close yer damn eyes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Hanzo snorts, but complies. He’s given him enough of a hard time.

For a long moment, nothing happens. He feels the warm aura of a body sidling up even closer.

Hanzo puffs out an impatient breath. It’s not like he doesn’t trust Jesse; they know each other too well, both on the battlefield and in their spare time. He wouldn’t do anything to untoward or offensive, and if he did, he’d back off in an instant. No, he trusts him completely.

When the broad palm of a hand slides up his cheek, however, his mind goes completely blank.

Another hand comes up to cradle his face on the other side, warmth encasing him from all angles. Hanzo melts without direct instruction from his brain – the rough smoothness of Jesse’s hands is heavenly, and for a while he doesn’t feel the urge to think.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he hears Jesse mutter, then he senses him leaning in.

Warmth blooms on Hanzo’s right eyelid, a slow and lazy thing. The outline of Jesse’s beard scratches high against his cheekbones. It’s the shape of lips that tickle at his eyelashes, distinct and tender.

Hanzo does everything in his power not to gasp. He holds himself still, fists clenched at his sides. It’s a strange sensation: one he hasn’t felt ever since he was a child. Genji had swung a toy straight into his face and it had hurt, so one of his caretakers had calmed him down by blowing warm air into the barely-bruised cavity of his eye. It made him feel safe, protected, loved.

All of these emotions flash through Hanzo. Jesse moves off, only to do the same to his left eye, just as much care and attention given to the other. He ends with a final kiss to his forehead, thumbs rubbing rhythmic circles into his temples.

He backs up a step. His hands slide down to his shoulders, grips them in a grounding gesture. “So that you only see good things in your dreams,” he explains, smile faint.

One step, two more steps: then he’s leaving, a jaunty two-fingered salute and a thumb hooked in his belt paints a unique silhouette against the darkness as he walks down the hall, spurs clinking in the distance.

Sleep does not come easy to Hanzo that night. But he occupies his waking moments replaying Jesse’s lingering touches, with a smile that refuses to leave his face to rest.


	4. Lucky Four Leaf Clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just not fair, Hanzo thinks, that when Jesse decides to do something nice it always backfires.
> 
> Well. In this case, maybe he deserves this - if he just thought it through, they wouldn't be in this position in the first place, now would they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the most lighthearted chapter of this 5 + 1 fic, buuuut wowie my fingers just had other plans (Dw it's not too bad).
> 
> Catch the reference to my other fic - yes, I steal ideas from myself. Side note, I cobbled together a politics paper of mine with 3 of my other politics papers and I got a B+ on it so yes, self-plagiarism IS a viable strategy and an amazing college life hack

“McCree…?”

Hanzo stares upwards, utterly transfixed. The echo of his voice reverberates throughout the empty hanger-turned-communal area.

Well, almost empty.

“How did you get up there?” He says this with more than a hint of incredulity, eyes rapidly growing wide with alarm.

“I told you, Agent Shimada.”

Athena’s voice rings out, breaking the awkward standstill between Hanzo, comfortably standing on the hard metal ground, and McCree, who is not-so-comfortably situated up near the ceiling, practically grazing it with his hat. He’s somehow removed himself from the nearest catwalk, is approximately twenty feet in the air and balanced precariously on a ledge – and holding on to nothing more. No one else is inside, courtesy of a busted “Under Construction” sign which Athena had completely disregarded as she opened the door to the small hanger without hesitation to let Hanzo in.

“Agent McCree has been in the same position for thirty-two minutes, and has been refusing to come down even though he is clearly in a hazardous position. That is why I called on you to resolve this issue with your expertise.”

“Oh come now, Athena, you make it sound like I’m bein’ unreasonable. I’m just… not done yet.”

“What, pray tell, _are_ you doing?” Hanzo finally finds his voice, exasperated and wanting answers.

A beat of silence. Then:

“Jus’ hangin’ around.”

McCree’s hand is reaching out towards the large bulb of a light fixture. It’s currently flickering, and it casts annoying irregular shadows throughout the back half of the hanger, just shy of the little nook they’ve created in the corner: the one with a few worn couches pushed together around a large holoscreen, under which they’ve packed an assortment videogame consoles and furnished with an enormous fuzzy shag rug, affording it a vaguely retro but very lived-in vibe.

It would be comical were it not for the fact that there were so many things that could go wrong in the very next moment – by which Hanzo hates that he has to use all his self-control to contain the snicker bubbling up at the absurd pun that meekly echoes down.

In the next moment he quickly gathers himself, a mix of outrage and a sharp spike of intense concern making him bellow louder than he intends, “Get down from there!”

McCree shuffles on his feet – _tries_ to shuffle as much as he can on a tiny ledge, obviously sheepish even from this distance. “I will, after I’m… done with this thing.”

“What. Are you doing. That is. So important,” Hanzo grounds out.

“It’s just… This…” McCree stands stock-still, then sighs, defeated. “I wanted to fix the light.”

Stillness. He lets this sink in.

“The _light_?” Hanzo squeaks.

“It’s so _fucking_ annoying,” McCree says, vehement, “It was throwin’ glare all over the holoscreen, and it just ticked me off so bad.”

This is ridiculous. Hanzo can hardly believe his ears.

“Makin’ this god-awful noise, like a buzzin’ fly. There, you see! It just did it right now!”

McCree is pointing an accusatory finger at the light, which did indeed make a noise – but it’s so far away from the ground level that Hanzo has to strain to hear.

This flimsy reasoning isn’t adding up. Since when has McCree ever been upset about something so trivial as a malfunctioning light?

“So could you just, uh, turn off the main lights for me, please?”

Another long stretch of silence. “Are you serious?”

“Well I’m already up here, so…”

“Barring the fact that there are so many things wrong with this predicament you’re in, why haven’t you asked Athena?”

“He did ask me, Agent Shimada.”

“‘Cause she said there are so many things wrong with this predicament I’m in,” McCree grumbles a bit self-consciously.

“No.” Hanzo is shaking his head. “No, I refuse. Get down from there.”

“Hanzo, c’mon!”

A brief vision of a parent scolding their child flashes through Hanzo’s mind, and the resolve that floods his being must surely be completely unrelated. He blows out a breath, musters up his most convincing voice, “Any second you are going to fall–”

“I’m not gonna fall!” McCree has the audacity to argue back. “Remember those climbing techniques you showed me?”

“Yes, I do, and I also remember that I made it very clear that they were basic handholds everyone should know. And I can see that you still need instruction because your hips are supposed to be flat against the wall to stabilize your center of gravity, not jutted out like that!”

No, Hanzo is not distractedly staring at McCree’s hips because his legs are encased in sweatpants, fabric stretched beautifully snug to perfectly accentuate his…

 _No! Focus! McCree is being stupid!_ Hanzo scolds himself just as McCree’s spur catches on the ledge.

He screams.

“Jesse!” Hanzo screams back.

The world lurches into slow motion, and for one sickening moment, the imminent sight of Jesse McCree’s dead body fills his view, still and lifeless on the cold hard ground of the hanger.

However, the battle-hardened assassin part of him has other ideas. With a panic that he expertly squashes, his legs hurtle his body towards the spot where McCree is falling. He skids into place, arms reaching out…

A solid body thuds into him and throws him wildly off-balance, sending the whole mess of the two men collapsing to the floor.

Groaning. And lots of it. “O-owww, my poor back…”

Strangely, that is what sends Hanzo over the edge.

“ _Ow?_ Is that all you have to say for yourself? OW?”

He flails his limbs, growing angrier and angrier when he fails to move an inch under the weight of McCree’s bulk. “You stupid, idiotic cowboy! What were you thinking? You could’ve gotten yourself killed! _Move_ so I can…!”

He is cut off by a wheezing cough, something sharp within his chest pricking at his lungs and back. He wiggles despite the discomfort.

“Get off me!” he roars, throwing in a frustrated growl for good measure. Which devolves into even more coughing.

This fit lasts even longer, and soon McCree clumsily slides off him – whether or not he obeys because of the command is hard to tell. He hears a thump, then another muffled groan.

“Of all the things…” Hanzo bites out, then takes a deep, calming breath. “Did you actually hurt your back?”

Silence in the hanger. McCree’s hat tips to the side.

Valiantly tamping down his temper, Hanzo assesses the situation. Their legs are still twined together; it’s too much effort to untangle them, so he drags his upper body towards the slumped pile of clothing.

“If you do not explain yourself within the next ten seconds,” he mutters into what he presumes is his ear, lowly, dangerously, promising retribution, “I am going to call over Dr. Zeigler, Fareeha, and Morrison to the hanger and you will be surrounded by not one, but _three_ disappointing glares. Four if Ana is–”

“Ididitfersatya.”

This muffle comes out a bit clearer.

“What?” he asks.

The hat is tipped back up, magically perched back onto his head at a visible angle. Eyes peek out from under his tousled hair. “I didn’t do it fer me. I did it for Satya.”

Confusion. Hanzo holds his breath. He shuffles in closer.

He continues gruffly, “She never told me she was bothered by it, but I noticed Satya would always squint up and give this damn light a death glare. An’ I could tell it was distractin’ her and she wasn’t interactin’ with the team that much in the first place. So I thought a gesture of _somethin’_ was in order, an’… heck, I dunno. I just wanted her to feel like we _do_ care. But I jus’ don’t think she really knows it, or believes it yet. N’ now I feel really stupid...”

All of Hanzo’s anger dissipates at his somber tone. Of course. This man isn’t so selfishly inclined as to do something for himself; that’s just not how he’s wired, how he governs himself by these values. It shames Hanzo – to think that he fell for the cover-up so easily…

“I know you have everyone’s best interests in mind, but please, have some sense of self-preservation.” Minutes after the incident and already Hanzo is caving in to Jesse’s excuses. Pure as they are, he attempts to come up with multiple ways to verbalize his unease and worry and disquiet, all while admonishing him to an effective degree without sounding overbearing, but nothing sounds right in his head.

Lying on the floor isn’t helping him think. Hanzo sits up, head dull and heavy from the blood rushing up his ears.

“Please don’t tell Satya.”

McCree follows him up, albeit more wobbly. However, the clamped hand that grips his shoulder discloses the weight of his plea.

 “She doesn’t know, an’ if she finds out she’ll hate me for sure,” he keeps blabbering, woozy, wincing from the pained pull of his sore back, “I don’t want her thinkin’ I’m giving her special treatment ‘cause I’d do this for anyone, _really_ , I would, I just–”

“I believe you, I believe you. Hush, cowboy.”

Prying the fingers off of his shoulder Hanzo clasps his hand tight, stopping the flow of words before Jesse works himself up to the edge of cracking. He murmurs assurances, lets him lean his forehead to rest on his collarbone, rubs a thumb over large, calloused knuckles. There is no more room for anger anymore that Hanzo has to preserve.

The minutes pass. They sit, nothing except for the sound of shallow breaths soon leveling off. The relaxed slump of his posture indicates he is more or less back to normal. Before he loses his nerve, Hanzo slips a finger under Jesse’s chin.

He tilts his face skyward ever so slightly. “I believe you. You do good work, Jesse McCree,” speaking into his sweat-drenched hair, “You have a good heart. Do not listen to those who tell you otherwise.”

He shifts, splitting them a little apart so that air can circulate between their heated bodies. “But I also do not want you to get yourself killed so idiotically,” Hanzo says with an obvious levity to his words, smiling in relief when Jesse huffs a laugh twice.

“Even if you _do_ act like an idiot sometimes,” he receives a light punch for that, “a just and honorable man such as yourself doesn’t deserve that kind of end.”

Even in such a compromising position Hanzo expects Jesse to puff his chest out in pride, preening over his admittedly rare compliments. But all he does is bend his head low, the curve of a thin smile poking out from under his hat. “You suggestin’ I’m best fit to go out with a bang, hm?”

In the hush of the hanger, Hanzo hears his heart beating out of his chest at the pronounced accent, rumbling and sensually drawled; perhaps not Jesse’s intention, but that’s the delicious vibration Hanzo feels in his bones.

They are still holding hands, he discovers, but he doesn’t quite want to let go, or leave just yet. He glances up at the light, still flickering. Then at the holoscreen, and the shag rug. He idly wishes Jesse had been fifteen feet closer to that side; at least then they’d be somewhat cushioned from the metal underfoot, despite whatever dormant allergies may reside in the decades-old carpeting.

It’s so faint Hanzo hardly feels it – but Jesse’s lips are a familiar sensation when they descend upon the back of his hand, leaving its impression with the lightest of presses. He lifts the hand up, touching it to the center of his forehead in a gesture of quiet respect.

Hanzo’s breath hitches, understanding the significance of what Jesse wants to say without words. So after swallowing down the lump in his throat all he says is, “Let’s get to Dr. Zeigler and check out your injury.”

He stands first, heaving up the unreasonably heavy body next to him by the arm. Before Jesse can protest he’s already listing off, “Our choices of cover are: I smacked you with my bow during a hand-to-hand training session, you were careless and accidentally walked in front of a swinging piece of machinery in the Garage, or you tried your hand at giving yourself a tramp stamp but failed miserably.”

“Those are the top three worst options I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

“You slipped in the shower?”

“Look at me, I ain’t even wet.”

“I am willing to dunk your head under a sink if that’s what it takes.”

“Thanks, you’re such a good friend,” Jesse says sarcastically.

Hanzo snaps his fingers. “You slipped in the communal showers before you even got a chance to use it. The floor hadn’t been mopped yet. Makes perfect sense since you are Southern and have clearly never seen water before and don’t know how to deal with it.”

Jesse glowers exaggeratedly. “I’ll have you know I _do_ know how to swim, and I am pre-etty good at it.”

“Oh? And I have it on good authority that a certain Blackwatch recruit failed the mandatory basic swimming training program _five_ times.”

A stifled gasp. “How did you–!”

“And that Commander Reyes granted you the only exemption to be given in Blackwatch after that.”

Another gasp, this time scandalized. “That _fucking_ Genji _bitch!_ I swear to god I will leak all the nasty _god-awful_ anime he’s watched–”

As Jesse rants and raves, Hanzo considers tossing the ancient “Under Construction” sign, then reconsiders; he might still have use for it when he comes back to fix that pesky light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my brain took this in another direction and the next thing I knew I wrote in an anxiety attack?? Cuz it’s canon that mccree has troubles with his past and how he’s trying to redeem himself and it bleeds into every aspect of his life, even with his teammates. And when he fails, it’s such a hard blow on him, like it almost did with satya ya know?


	5. 5-Pointed Star: Symmetry Achieved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo can't take it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm satisfied with the first part of this, but hooooo boy I absolutely hate how I handled the second half. I wrote this chapter like, half-unconscious the whole way through so I don’t even know if this is good sorry yall

“This cake isn’t a lie!”

A cheer (and a battle cry from Hana) goes up as the cake is cut, revealing the chocolate interior underneath the elaborately decorated MEKA frosted in fluorescent pink. Lúcio dips a finger in, painting a proud Hana’s cheeks with her signature markings. Reinhardt eagerly does the same thing on her other cheek.

Hanzo rolls his eyes at their antics, taking a sip of his drink. The party’s been in full swing for a while now. The team had run their first official mission with the MEKA 2.0 and her micro-missiles, and it had been a resounding success. With Hana’s new role as offensive assaulter, diving deep into the enemy backline is the strategy the MEKA 2.0 excels at in a way its previous iteration was not, sowing enough discord so that the frontline could move up to take an aggressive position early on in combat. Most importantly, it makes sure that a repeat of Dorado does not happen again.

Hanzo puts that out of his mind – the time for battlefield analysis and combat reports is long gone, and it’s time to celebrate all they’ve accomplished. Everyone’s in varying states of intoxication, hence the freed inhibitions – Genji is handing a starry-eyed Hana his shortsword in place of the knife, and for once, Morrison isn’t on her case for underage drinking (“old habits die hard” is his gruffly contrite explanation).

For tonight they’ve converted the small hanger for their use, impressively unrecognizable under the dimmed lights, cheap strobes, and pleasingly low thump of music, courtesy of Lúcio. Hanzo eyes the shag rug, then up at the now-steady light, considering; it’s probably the most they’ve ever had to reach to throw a party for, but if there’s one thing he knows it’s that they’ve all earned a well-deserved break.

Hanzo goes to take another sip, then frowns. When had his cup drained itself?

“Han, heeeeey!”

Just as Hanzo focuses his blurred vision into the bottom of his cup, searching for his missing alcohol, a body flops onto the couch he’s sitting on.

“You up for Silent Disco?” McCree yells into his ear louder than necessary. He is more than tipsy, if the lop-sided grin and too-limber movements are any indication.

Hanzo peeks over McCree’s unsteady shoulder, trying not to concentrate on the warmth radiating from him. The center of the hanger has been cleared out for dancing, and Lúcio is handing out headphones to those interested. Genji is the first one up on his feet, flailing his limbs in what he thinks is dancing.

That settles it. “I can do better than that,” Hanzo mutters, steely resolve propelling himself onto the dance floor with McCree in tow, who’s stumbling after him and laughing at nothing in particular.

The headphones go on, and the evening goes by in a blur. Ten seconds into his one-sided rivalry with Genji, he soon pays him no mind as the music thumps his ears and leaves him in his own world, snapshots of people whirling by: Ana moving in sync with Angela in a modest shuffle, Morrison tapping his foot off to the side as he gets nudged by a smirking Torbjorn, Lúcio making him dizzy with the mesmerizing way he so fluidly jams out, hair tumbling like a smooth waterfall. And, of course, Reinhardt happily waltzing out-of-tune (Hanzo realizes why: he’s not wearing headphones).

Ask him a few months ago and Hanzo would pin his giddiness purely on how much alcohol he’s consumed – which, to be fair, he’s had a lot of. This kind of scene doesn’t look like anything Sober Hanzo would enjoy, but it’s not just that. He’s having fun. He’s really truly having fun.

And as he pants with exertion on the dance floor, tired in ways that battle doesn’t make him tired, he looks over to McCree – looking as out of place as Reinhardt doing a ridiculous line dance, carefree as can be.

Heat rushes through his body, igniting his blood in ways that has never been sparked before. His eyes are fixed on his shadowed form.

He makes his way towards McCree, who spots him early on. There’s a toothy smile waiting to greet him. His lips move.

The headphones blast a bone-rumbling beat, but Hanzo can read his lips; infer what he says based on the wink he gives, and the extended arm: _May I have this dance, darlin’?_

As graceful as he tries to be, McCree bows a little too much – he would have fallen over were it not for Hanzo’s quick reflexes who, for the second time that week, takes his weight and leads them off the dance floor.

“Exactly how much have you had to drink?” Hanzo asks breathlessly as he removes their headphones, surroundings rushing back into relative clarity.

McCree sways drunkenly. The weight on his shoulders is solid and wonderfully heavy. “I dunno, a few,” he slurs, then hiccups. Then giggles. Then hiccups again.

Hanzo furrows his brow. Damn, McCree is absolutely plastered. How has he been dancing, let alone standing upright this whole time?

A hand unabashedly pats his chest. “Didya eat the cake? Was good. Least I thought so. I ‘member you like cake.” A gasp. “You wan’ more cake? Les’ go get some!”

McCree stumbles forward, dragging Hanzo along with surprising strength. When they arrive at the snacks table, it’s mostly cleaned off. Luckily, a decent-sized chunk of cake is left.

McCree, absurdly happy about this turn of events, goes to seal the box. Hanzo watches on, an unfamiliar need seizing him, powerful and acute.

His vision narrows, a strange sort of fire burning in his veins. The party mellows out into the background, gray and uninteresting, while Jesse pops with color, intense and lucid, brilliant colors glowing. It’s dizzying and incredible, and he has to blink a little to clear his view. His eyes are drawn to the cake. Then to Jesse. Then to his lips.

Hanzo grips his wrist, tendons thick and sturdy. Pulls him across the hanger. Past Hana, who’s encouraging Satya to the dance floor – and towards an even bubblier Mei, who is competing for loudest voice with Reinhardt.

They go past them, slip past everyone else: through the doors, down the hall. Up the one steep slope that Hanzo exclusively has the odds of having his room at the very top. Punches in his entry code. Fail once, then twice, then three times. Pounding on the door, mouth open to yell in frustration–

Until a large hand wraps around his fingers: smoothly, gently, slowly, drifting towards the correct numbers in the correct sequence.

“I bring to you a fine cake,” Jesse says reverently, leaning forward into Hanzo’s space, excessively enunciating his syllables. He’s… speaking to the door? “May I enter your domain with my humble offering?”

The door opens. He chuckles openly, the breath sliding around Hanzo neck. Then – a kiss placed on the back of his head: over the thickness of black hair, barely there and ethereal yet lingering. It lights the desire, the _hunger_ – that same hunger from Dorado, all the way down Hanzo’s skin, down his limbs, to his toes. He clenches his fists to his sides, his decision made.

Hanzo has a debt to repay.

The hush of the hallway is hardly broken as Hanzo drags Jesse into his room; the cake is plucked out of his hands, set on the side table. Jesse himself is thrown onto Hanzo’s bed, giggling all the way down.

Hanzo doesn’t even realize he’s thrown his body over him, slotting his legs on each side of his waist, locking him in place. His hands come up, grips Jesse’s head, holds it firmly in place. He leans down, grazes his lips in last-minute hesitation against Jesse’s cheek.

Forty-seven. Forty-seven kisses Jesse has given him since the Dorado mission. Hanzo had been keeping count, all this time.

He plants his first kiss. And now he has a debt to repay.

Jesse giggles, but otherwise gives no indication that he recognizes the scope of what Hanzo’s done, drunk as he is. It’s a saving grace, but it weighs him down just the same.

Hanzo puts that out of his mind. He has a debt to repay. He repeats this over and over as he peppers kisses on every inch of Jesse’s face, the same way his friend has done for him, the only moments of solace granted to him for the past few weeks.

Four. Five. Six. The roughness of Jesse’s beard doesn’t stop him, or slow him down. Still he takes his time, making each kiss special: the corners of his eyes, the crown of his widow’s peak, the rough angle of his jawline, every part in between. Between his eyebrows is his favorite spot, untouched nerves tingling in new exotic ways.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Jesse begins to squirm, soft sighs coming unbidden, puffed into the crook of his neck. Hanzo adjusts his hips, dips down even closer, so the strain in his back is less bothersome.

Seventeen. Eighteen–

“Whoooooa,” Jesse croaks beneath him. Large hands slide up Hanzo’s left thigh. “Yer dick’s huuuuuge.”

A shiver travels up his spine, alternating cool and warm. Still he can’t help but snicker like an immature child. “Excuse me?”

“Yer dick,” Jesse repeats, the hand continuing to move up and down, “it’s so big. So… damn, that is _big_. Wow…”

Then, the hands find his other thigh. A shocked gasp. “You have _two_ dicks? Fuckin’ lucky-ass… You rascal, where’d you find two dicks?” The hands urge him closer, brings his legs to slot snugly on either side of Jesse’s torso.  “I want one, too,” he continues to whine. “C’moooon.”

Hanzo splays his hands upon Jesse’s chest, barely able to contain his laughter. “Jesse,” he pats his face, “Jesseeee. Those aren’t my dicks. I don’t even have _one_ dick.”

“So then what’re these?”

He flexes his thighs. “My thighs.”

“Oh.” He deflates. “Aw. I need one, too.”

“A thigh?” Hanzo asks, confused.

“No, a dick.”

“Oh.”

It may take a while for Hanzo to settle his swimming vision, but he can still tell Jesse is pensive, thoughtful, mouth downturned – or maybe he’s just staring off into the distance. He can’t quite tell. Either way, it won’t do; Hanzo needs to wipe the melancholy off his face.

Without a word Hanzo slips his fingers up Jesse’s hair, massaging it out – it sends a thrill to hear Jesse’s moan of pleasure break free, hands tightening their grip around Hanzo’s middle.

The kisses resume – this time a bit slower, more intimate, no part of their skin left untouched. Jesse rears up, crosses his legs over the small of Hanzo’s back, pulls him in and locks him tight, never letting go. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

The air shifts. It swells thick with tension even as Hanzo feels the stretch of a lazy smile ever-growing under his thumb, stroking left and right and left and right. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

He almost loses count; almost loses himself in the kisses, in the addicting texture of Jesse’s skin under his chapped lips. But his debt is almost repaid. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

A kiss on his nose, then on his hairy temple, and then the hollow of his neck. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. His eyes gravitate towards his mouth. The fire blazes.

No. He can’t. He needs to repay his debt. Nothing more. Nothing less. Forty-six.

Never the mouth.

Forty-seven.

The last kiss lingers. Hovers over the fullness of his lips. Then pauses. With a last of his willpower he drifts to the side – offers it reverently to the left corner of his mouth.

Bracing himself on his forearms, Hanzo tumbles off Jesse to occupy the free space left on his bed. Jesse has long since fallen asleep, spread horizontally to the bed, a smile etched onto his face.

Exhaustion consumes Hanzo, the alcohol catching up to his eyes and limbs, deadening them. He had done it. He had paid his debt, and had refused to submit to his desires – for they would be the end of his friendship with Jesse, and this little arrangement they had. He had been living a life with Jesse’s kisses and companionship; it’s too painful to imagine if Hanzo had been the one to ruin it all.

Hopefully, he thinks as he closes his eyes, succumbing to fatigue, hopefully they would wake tomorrow morning with no memory of this night. That Jesse would forget this night had never happened and would continue as before, unaffected and unchanged. He hopes.

Hanzo falls to an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and uh, they’re trans. Both of them. Why, you may ask? Cause I said so THAT’S WHY (and I wanted to make that joke)


	6. It Comes Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo has to make a decision he's long put off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM DONE IM GODDAMN DONE WITH THIS STUPID CHAPTER  
> *ahem*
> 
> As you can see, this chapter has been giving me... quite a bit of difficulty. Sorry for the delay but I have been slaving over this one chapter for MONTHS and I'm still not satisfied with it. Do you know how much stuff I wrote then deleted then rewrote? I went through so many tonal shifts, from dramatic to philosophical to OOC- it was a mess. it was just. a mess. that's all you gotta know. Anyway, here it is my objectively worst piece (in this specific fic at least) but at least I finished it. Hope it was worth the wait!

The first thing Hanzo feels when he wakes up is a throbbing pain in his head.

It’s painful and incessant, like his heart has taken up residence in his skull and left no room for his brain to function. Steady beats of spasms push hard against frayed nerve endings. His forehead crinkles in automatic response, grimacing. The experience isn’t unfamiliar; drinking again, no doubt.

Growing awareness comes with a wave of disorientation, and the headache pulses even more. He shoves his palms into sore eye sockets, waiting a full minute for it to lessen. It hardly helps. He doesn’t want to sit up – not when there’s a wonderful haze that’s deadening his limbs, roping him in to the heavenly softness of the mattress underneath him. Standard-issue bunks have never been so comfortable…

He rolls over sluggishly, stubbornly refusing to think as he nestles closer towards a lumpy heat source to his right. He curls up into a ball, breathing a deep sigh of relief when welcome darkness shields early morning sunlight from sensitive eyes.

Something tickles the back of his mind. Bah, he’s too lazy to chase it. A distinct spicy scent spins his head delightfully airy, and for a few moments it whisks away all thoughts, unpleasant or otherwise. Last night's party. Dancing, drinking, thudding music. Chocolate cake, messy and sweet. Laughter, so much laughter. So happy…

A drifting thought catches on the edge of his consciousness, warmer than the rest. It snags, not letting him go back to blissful sleep, tempting him to linger. His face tingles with ghostly sensation.

He shifts once more - and freezes when he encounters a wall of decidedly human bulk.

Eyes snap open in an instant, a hot icicle of alarm bringing his surroundings into sharp focus. The spicy scent comes in full force now, and his vision blocked by deep red plaid - but those pale in comparison to the memories that flood over him.

Disjoined emotions course through Hanzo as the events of last night stream in against his will. An unmistakable sense of dread spreads, and it crashes through with the force of a tsunami: the walk up the hill. The keypad, the frustration at wobbly fingers. A warm hand guiding him, holding him. The world melting away to a single point. The closeness. The kisses. God, so many kisses…

When he chances a glance upwards it’s a traitorous feeling that has him sucking a breath in love-struck fascination at the disheveled state of his friend.

Jesse, thankfully, sleeps on, heedless of the stare Hanzo’s hungry eyes feast at the sight laid out before him. Breath slow and even, lips slightly parted, face overlain with wrinkles caused by too many close calls. Creamy-soft flannel elicits an intense flush of heat caressing Hanzo’s cheeks when he catches himself mindlessly rubbing the cloth between his fingers.

He’s close. He’s too close, and it’s making him feel and do things that his alcohol-addled mind can’t muster up the energy to fight back - against the desire bubbling from behind long-standing barriers, boundaries being broken without care in this moment of indulgent fantasy.

Equal parts euphoria and shame consume him, and he admonishes himself for being weak enough to end up like this. Tempted by his own selfish desire, unable to reign in the months of pent-up longing, only for it to blow back up at the worst possible moment.

Although there is no one to witness this tragedy Hanzo covers his face and makes a quiet, agonizing sound. Of course he had to go and screw it up. A senseless action on his part, doubtlessly marking the end of their friendship. Any minute Jesse would wake. Best to leave soon, lessen the blow, savor these last few moments…

“I hear ya, pardner, light’s killin’ me, too. Urgh, Christ…”

A voice that has no right to be that husky puts a stop to whatever plans he’s devising, rumbling close to his head. Not like there’s any way Hanzo can escape when he’s spellbound watching Jesse stretch, up and wide like a cat. It’s a slow and languid process, despite the discomfort etched in his expression. The deep olive tone to his skin shines tantalizingly in the sunlight that dusts his broad shoulders, and each individual hair is painted in fuzzy relief covering his arms and knuckles.

Angel is the only word Hanzo comes up with, heart stopping at the drowsy, tousled mess of a man that cracks open red-rimmed eyes. Jesse promptly squeezes them shut again to yawn.

“Hooooo-wee.” The yawn transitions into a ridiculously stereotypical cowboy whoop. He rolls his shoulders, an untold number of bones cracking the silence. “Don't tell me: Drunk Me partied like he was twenty-two all last night.”

Hanzo blinks once, taking in the view. He swallows. “It could have been worse.”

At that, Jesse squints. He idly scratches at his chest. “Pardon my French, but ya sound like a dying donkey trying to sing karaoke.”

Hanzo blinks again, slower this time. This is not the direction he expected the conversation to go.

“What time is it,” grumbles Jesse. Anger was definitely anticipated, and what Hanzo was most prepared for - he knows how to deal with anger and accusations. To hurl back some of his own or to internalize them and endure, as he has for decades on. And yet the man in question is not angry whatsoever.

“What the fuck.”

He is, however, very confused.

There is a large cardboard box taking up the surface on Jesse's nightstand, the current subject of scrutiny. Jesse points at the mysterious box dumbly. “I'm too old for pranks. Is Hana filming this?”

He says this with growing suspicion, and Hanzo knows without a doubt that he is trying to retrieve the memory but failing miserably.

“You stole half the cake,” Hanzo supplies. “Remember?”

“Not really, no. Why would I do that? I’m not usually a hungry drunk.”

_Two men with slurred smiles, laughing at nothing as they escape the party to retire to his quarters._ The memory brings heat to Hanzo’s cheeks. “It’s ours now,” he deflects instead. “Pass it over, I’m starving.”

His appetite has long since vanished, but he futilely hopes it will give him the time he needs to think. So far he’s come up with three outcomes to choose from, each more hopeless than the last: ask Jesse to leave, awkward and formal as that may turn out; carry on as normal, as if waking up next to your best friend-turned-crush nursing a hangover and sharing an unhealthy breakfast in bed isn’t the most domestically painful thing to never come to be; or confess.

“Ain’t nobody teach you how to share? Yeesh.”

A knife cuts up a small portion of mushy cake, wobbling on its edge. Jesse brings it up to his open mouth, who frowns, slightly self-conscious. “What? There’s no spoons or forks. At least I’m not eating with my hands. You savage.”

Hanzo’s headache throbs at his words, but he feels a smile being unearthed. The cowboy's not even the least bit fazed - like his Tuesdays are typically comprised of such domestic scenes. If Jesse is acting like nothing is untoward, then well – it makes Hanzo feel like things are back to normal.

“What do you remember from last night? After the party?”

It’s like a long-held breath finally being let out. That one moment of comfort was all it took to lower his defenses, what prompted him to ask such a dangerous question. He feels indescribably better, but only for a scant few seconds. All the tension he’s built up inside, that he’s managed to contain for months, this… thing they’ve been having comes crashing down in full force now that he's acknowledged it. Out in the open.

It feels like a dirty secret even though it’s just the two of them alone, no one else to witness. _Laid to bare,_ he shivers.

There's a spot of pink-white frosting on the corner of Jesse's mouth. Hanzo trains his gaze on it, scared in an unfamiliar way. “Nothing much,” the cowboy responds, knifeful of cake lowered back down. “Just that it felt good. Happy.”

Despite the vagueness Hanzo knows exactly how much he remembers. There's no mistaking how quiet he's gone, or the almost shameful downcast of his eyes to his wringing hands.

There's no ill will, nor disgust. Not yet, Hanzo thinks. But before he can say anything more, Jesse butts in:

“I want to apologize.”

Stunned, Hanzo is witness to an uncertainty he's never seen in his friend before as he presses on, “I know how pushy I can be sometimes. I doubt myself, sometimes, that what I’m doing is truly helpful. But then I see you so all broody an’ miserable and I just…”

“I just wanted to help, you know?” He becomes more animated, though no less at ease. “But I think I went too far without seeing how it affected you. So for that I apologize.”

What is he talking about?

“You are an idiot,” interrupts Hanzo.

That is not what he meant to say – but somehow it gets the message across, based on Jesse's slapped expression.

“However, I am the bigger idiot.” He scoots closer, some resolve hidden deep inside pushing aside the cake and pressing a hard hand on top of Jesse's. “It is I who should apologize. You've only ever had the best of intentions for me. For everyone. Don't be sorry about that.”

“Bull to the shit.” That seems to reignite Jesse, and he growls. “I'm an idiot, too! And I'll apologize however much I want.”

“Don't interrupt me,” Hanzo rebuts. “It's rude.”

He sounds like a scolding parent, but he's too focused to be embarrassed. Hanzo has a point to make, damn it, and his friend is being stubborn.

The spot of frosting on Jesse's face looks delicious.

“You’ve got a, ah,” Hanzo gestures to the spot, mad about… what is he mad about? “something on your face.”

It's distracting. It's stupid. It ignites something in his chest when Jesse does a poor job of wiping it off when he smears it across half of his mouth.

“Did I get it?” he asks.

“No,” answers Hanzo, and leans forward to count to forty-eight.

The kiss is over before it begins; the taste of frosting is too overpowering, so Hanzo takes matters into his own hands and scrubs roughly over the cowboy’s lips.

“Manhandling me so many times I've lost count– mmph,” Jesse complains with a laugh, who is shut up by another kiss.

It's kiss number forty-nine that loosens his heart and tongue. Hanzo pulls back. “I shouldn't have let you on like this but I could not take it anymore,” he says quietly, somber in his confession. Fingers scrunch worn fabric. “I did not want to lose your support if you ever realized how much I truly wanted… needed your…”

_Your kisses,_ he tries to move his mouth but shame stops him. _Your kindness, your strength. Your love._

“I was hoping you'd say that.” Jesse sounds like he’s on the same precipice Hanzo is on. “Because I was scared, too.”

This could still turn out disastrous. Hanzo never meant to tell Jesse this much of his inner turmoil. He should bail while he can and save face.

“Don’t be.” For once in his life, Hanzo’s heart makes the decision for him. When he counts to fifty he seals his fate.

Around kiss number eighty-four or so (Hanzo’s not too sure – he’s lost count) Jesse’s phone vibrates with a message. Then another, then another. Then five more.

When he glances at the barrage of texts he groans. “Hana couldn’t have picked a worse time to…” He trails off, reading on. “Oh. Now that’s juicy gossip.”

Loathe as he is to admit, it piques Hanzo’s interest. He is a disciplined man.

“Spill,” he finds himself commanding. Fuck discipline, today’s a cheat day.

‘“Convinced Satya to play Portal,’” Jesse reads, then gets a glimmer in his eye that Hanzo finds potent, “‘got deets on her love life. come thru for updates from last night’s party. winky face winky face winky face’ and a,” he squints, “snowman emoji? She typed out winky face three times in case you were wondering.”

Hanzo looks from the phone, to Jesse, then back to the phone. Then levels his gaze to the almost-finished cake.

Without a word Jesse scoops it up, cradling it like it’s his own Peacekeeper. Hanzo is moved by the unexpected delicacy, for strange reasons. He gets up, slings an arm around Jesse’s shoulders. Pulls him in for a kiss. With a radiant smile like that, Hanzo’s own headache seems like a trivial problem. “Let’s not keep them waiting. We have our own news to spring, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hint hint* symmei at the end, go science gals go!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Satya scolds because she cares (in her own way)


End file.
